


On Dreams

by actualtimelady



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Gen, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualtimelady/pseuds/actualtimelady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are dreams like?” the question doesn’t seem odd to him. Not as though he expected that she’d come to him, but that he expected that it was the type of question she would want answered.</p><p>Dwarves can't dream. Without a connection to the fade, it simply isn't possible. Curiosity strikes, and Inquisitor Cadash begins to ask around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Dreams

“What are dreams like?” posed to a once-jailer, now friend. They sit sheltered from the cold Frostback winds under the looming walls of Skyhold, reading bad novels picked from the far reaches of the Inquisitor’s library.

“I suppose you wouldn’t know, would you?” A moment of contemplation, and then: “It is like a story told in faces you barely recognize. Sometimes there is logic and reason, but most of the time it is terrifyingly chaotic. A book with pages missing, stories half-told and making up for the loss with other stories.” A frown, a crease between the eyebrows. “It is… different for everyone. I have no talent for describing such things. Maybe you should ask some of the others? Someone else may be better equipped to help you understand.”

* * *

 

“What are dreams like?” asked too loudly for a room of secrets, and yet still masked by the caw of ravens. The rookery howls with wind from the open windows as missives are sent and secrets revealed.

The face of a former Lay Sister is softened for a moment. “It is the soft whisper of a lover’s kiss on your mind, coaxing you gently into a wonderland of new ideas your waking mind could not begin to fathom,” Eyes distant, off in some memory of times long past.

* * *

 

“What are dreams like?” the smell of fresh paint and the gleam of a new mural. He paints major events and sketches the minor, little bits of life filed away for later viewing. There’s some of each of them, impressions and inspirations, translations to images for reasons only he can know.

“They are adventures into times oft forgotten, lost to the whims of time and poor memory. A place one can wander and learn, if one chooses to remember. A shame and a pity you are not able to explore in such a way. Imagine what you and others could learn of pasts lost to the destructions of your thaigs.”

* * *

 

“What are dreams like?” the question jumps out during a pause in their third game of chess, anxious and excited and wanting to learn. Every answer leaves her both more confused and fascinated with each telling, each new perspective.

Features that had relaxed now furrow, shoulders once again taught and strained against the weight of burdens carried. “They are… regrets and fears made manifest. The worst parts of you made inescapable and sometimes the nights feel like they last years.” Suddenly, she’s less excited about what it means to dream.

* * *

 

“What are dreams like?” The question comes more hesitantly, as if the answer is a thing that can wound if wielded. And can’t it? She saw what the question had done to one, and she didn’t want that to happen again. This time it is approached delicately, rather than brandished. She’d seen her ambassador’s eternal softness, and didn’t want to lose something they had so little of amongst her bruised and battered companions.

A hesitation, and she is sure she messed up again. “Sometimes… it is awful. In dreams we can be forced to relive things we never wish to see again. Those moments are… Vivid, to say the least. Others… It is such a marvelous escape from the stresses of duty and family. Sometimes the stresses follow instead, and I dream of letters burying me in a sea I can not swim out of. But most of the time they are a welcome escape.”

* * *

 

“What are dreams like?” The roof they sit on looks over part of the courtyard. They can see the main hall entrance from here, and people around them below. The cookies were awful, but much better than the first time.

“What are you still on about that for?” a laugh, a mischievous, gleeful sound that comes from the soul. “Fine, weirdy, here’s how it is, yeah? Most of the time, dreams are useless. Just a lot of nonsense floating around in your head like “Ohhhh, look at me!” Useless. Other times, it’s sexual, right? Those are the fun ones, unless they get weird. Imagine your lover with a head of bees. Or, like, feet made out of some slimy sea creature. Not sexy. And sometimes… There’s a lot of creepy nothing surrounding you and you can’t breathe, so you try and wake up. Those are never fun, and they make it hard to go back to sleep”

* * *

 

“What are dreams like?” they’re sitting down to tea, an opportunity the enchanter usually uses for discussing the state of the inquisition and ways they could all improve their standing. Or, sometimes, matters slightly more personal, like feelings on the latest events. Deaths of those they knew, the injuries of others. The question doesn’t seem out of the ordinary in this quiet, introspective space.

“They’re nonsensical, Darling, not really worth your time,” a delicate bite and a sip, like a ritual learned in youth. A touch of refinery that the Inquisitor herself never quite seemed to grasp. “Were it not for the necessity in a mage’s connection to everything that makes one magical, I would envy you the lack thereof. Some scholars say there is a way to derive meaning, but it’s a pointless field of study”

* * *

 "What are dreams like?" A rhythmic scrape against wood, working on the carving he has been laboring over for a long time, a little every day. It has a defined shape, and though it is reminicent of a life he never led, it suits him. The scraping doesn't even pause as he tells her.

"They are everything, my lady. Dreams are hopes for a better life, even when the dreams themselves aren't good. They show us what we want, either by showing the want or... by showing what we fear from not getting it." A small pause, then he looks at her. "They are your mind telling you what you dared not listen to in your waking hours because when you are asleep you have no other choice."

* * *

 

“What are dreams like?” This time asked groggily, in one of many mornings-after. He doesn’t always stay, but this time was special. This time a pair of necklaces lay beside the bed for the two of them. She had them made special, doing the work herself where she had the skill. Skin-to-skin she could feel the rise and fall of his strong chest as he considered.

“Sometimes they’re nothing. Bits of memory lost the moment you wake up. That’s most days, actually. Then there are nightmares. Some come from real life, some you imagine. And rarely… Sometimes, but rarely, dreams are raw emotion that lay you bare, that strip you to your most basic being. Those can be wonderful, or they can be awful. It all depends on the emotion, I guess. I’ll share some of mine with you sometimes. The fun ones. I think you’d get a laugh.”

* * *

 

“What are dreams like?” He knows she’s been asking around. He’s heard it posed to some of the others, or has heard it from others who have. She’s never really alone with anyone here, after all. He’s ready with an answer, no hesitation in his voice. He’s had a chance to think this through.

“Dreams are fantasies played over in your head. Not all fantasies are good fantasies, mind you. There are all types. A first time with the person you wish to take as a lover. An adventure between a short friend and her handsome companion. A fight which leaves you dying, or else cut raw with words. Happier times with a happier family. Dreams can not be condensed into a single meaning that will help you understand, unfortunately. I am sorry, my friend.”

* * *

 

“What are dreams like?” the question doesn’t seem odd to him. Not as though he expected that she’d come to him, but that he expected that it was the type of question she would want answered.

“Screaming. They can’t have him. Not him --anyone but him. Blood everywhere as a dragon is silhouetted in the distance. Songs from open windows as they dance in the street. A kind word, a tantalizing smile, an offer hidden in lies I can hear but can’t resist. Fighting, fearful, fleeing from forgotten feelings that cut and fester. Nightmares. Raging. It’s her, they use her against me. Make her change right there, and I can do nothing to stop it. Waves on the docks. Try as I might I can’t pull my family away from a ship that is doomed to sink in the open sea. I can’t save them, they won’t listen, I have failed them. Things go wrong when I want them to go right, everything is wrong. Everything is loud. Everything keeps pushing against me but everything is so far away and I am alone and I scream but there is no sound. This again. Not real, I have not failed. It was a close thing, but I made it --I am me. The templars want to cut me down, but I am me. Please stop, nothing has changed. A mistake. I had no idea it would be like this. He was supposed to be alone! Anger, abhorration, anchored deep inside. I was wrong, and I know I must face it but I can't, I can't, I can't! Fog. Lots of fog. Too much fog and I can’t see. I hear my men but I can’t see them. I hear their screams and know I am needed. I swing my axe and it is my fault when his head hits the ground. I saved him once, I couldn’t save him again. My words are not my own. I am locked away, unable to talk. Whenever I wish to say something the opposite comes out. This is not me. How could he change me, how could I have let this happen, how can I--” a pause, a breath. Less frantically: “But that is not what you wanted. I can see the pain in your face, please let me try again…

“Dreams are… going home to a place you know you will never be able to return to again. It is sweet, but scary. It wants to help, but with your mind screaming it twists and turns. It doesn’t mean to hurt, only to show. Sometimes it just gets lost.”

* * *

 

As she lies awake, years later, she wonders what she would see in her dreams if Solas succeeds in lifting the veil… After all she’s seen and heard, she is not sure she wants to know.

 

 


End file.
